


complimentary (a perfect set)

by lizardhair



Series: a perfect set [2]
Category: DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Animal Death, Blood and Gore, Cigarettes, Creepy Victor Zsasz, Developing Relationship, Dirty Thoughts, Dom/sub Undertones, Getting to Know Each Other, I am here to fuck up the ship tags, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Knives, M/M, Multi, Obsession, One-Sided Attraction, Possessive Behavior, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Scars, Stabbing, Talking, Threats of Violence, Victor Zsasz's Tally Marks, Villains, but like consensual stabbing, those last two are just to be safe, victor zsasz is his own warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:26:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23761543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizardhair/pseuds/lizardhair
Summary: Zsasz found Deathstroke right where Roman said he would be: sitting on the edge of the roof, smoking a cigarette.
Relationships: Roman Sionis/Victor Zsasz, Victor Zsasz/Slade Wilson
Series: a perfect set [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1711786
Comments: 8
Kudos: 162





	complimentary (a perfect set)

**Author's Note:**

> I would advise reading Part 1 before reading this, but it isn't 100% necessary. 
> 
> Maybe just 95% necessary.

Zsasz found Deathstroke right where Roman said he would be: sitting on the edge of the roof, smoking a cigarette. 

_ Really, _ Zsasz had thought as he’d trudged up the stairs,  _ it’s like Wilson doesn’t know we have this whole place covered in cameras. _ After he had forced the door open, fighting against a sudden burst of wind in the process, Zsasz took a moment to consider the older man.

If he was being honest, Zsasz supposed he could see why Deathstroke appealed to Roman. Wilson was an incredibly dangerous man, a killer-for-hire, and a metahuman to boot. Besides, there was no denying that he--like all of Roman’s personal possessions--was attractive.

Of course, Roman saw beauty in even the most gruesome of Zsasz’s kills, in the self-made scars that adorned his body. He would praise the tally marks whenever Zsasz stood shirtless before the bedroom mirror in Roman’s penthouse, preparing to add to the count. 

Perhaps it was simply that Black Mask desired things which were equal parts alluring and deadly. Perhaps that was why the man intended to one day own Gotham herself: because he could see the glamor--the glory--in her hellish depths.

Zsasz hoped more than anything that Roman knew he saw the same beauty in him. That he would carve his love (because it  _ was _ a kind of love which Zsasz felt) into flesh, into bone, across pavement in blood and corpses, until the day he died. 

_ All for you, boss. _

Presently, Zsasz strolled up behind Wilson, giving serious consideration to putting a boot between his shoulder blades and shoving him off of the roof. One little nudge and he’d get to watch the mercenary go  _ splat. _ It was tempting, enough so that the only thing which held Zsasz back was Roman’s “suggestion” for him to make friends with Wilson.

He could do that: playing nice might be fun.

“Mind if I join you?” Zsasz asked Wilson’s back, expecting a monosyllabic answer. Wilson didn’t disappoint.

“No.”

With that (and with no small amount of caution), Zsasz dropped down on Wilson’s left.  _ Best to let the guy keep me in his peripheral if we’re gonna get along, _ he thought. 

Legs now dangling off the edge, Zsasz peered at the city streets far below and decided to add  _ falling from a high place _ to his list of “Shitty Ways to Die.”  _ Talk about a hell of a drop. _ Ostensibly to make himself more comfortable on the cold stone, Zsasz leaned back and said,

“Nice view up here.” He paused. “Kinda makes you want a smoke, though. Got one to spare?”

At last, Wilson turned to face Zsasz. “Why are you bumming cigarettes?” The mercenary’s voice was as monotone as ever. “Don’t you have your own?”

_ An actual conversation? With Deathstroke? _ Zsasz could have laughed.  _ Must be my lucky night.  _

Out loud he said, “On me? Fuck no. You know how the boss feels about us smoking cheap shit like cigs.”

“Mm,” Wilson responded.

“I mean, that’s why you’re on the roof, yeah?” Since Wilson was still looking his way, Zsasz grinned. “Wind like this, there won’t be any lingering smell on your clothes.” Another calculated pause. Zsasz knew just how well Roman wanted him to  _ get along _ with Deathstroke, and he didn’t have any objections to such a thing. 

So with (alarming) ease, Zsasz let his grin slide into something a bit more vulpine. “And I’ve got a bottle of cologne back in my room, if you want to use that, too...” 

To Zsasz’s amusement, Wilson’s flat expression was unchanged even as he cocked his head like a puzzled dog. “Mr. Zsasz--”

Zsasz cut him off. “You’re welcome to use it any time...At least until the boss gets you your own scent. Then you’ll have to use that.” After adjusting the collar of his shirt, Zsasz continued. “But I’m sure he’ll pick out something nice and expensive. Hopefully you like it, too.”

Wilson’s cigarette had burned down to his fingertips; he flicked the stub over the roof’s edge, watching as it fell down, down, down. Zsasz made a mental note to ask Roman if there were any particularly annoying Falcone goons sniffing around to whom he could give the same treatment. He figured they’d both like to see someone burn as they plummeted towards the pavement.

For now though, Zsasz was content to study Wilson as he lit another cigarette. The longer he hung around Deathstroke, the more Zsasz could understand why Roman was interested in having him either carve into or fuck into the guy.  _ Could I do both at once? That’d be tough...unless Wilson was cooperative... _

“Did you still want to smoke, Mr. Zsasz?”

Wilson’s inquiry was quick to pull Zsasz out of his thoughts. “If you don’t mind,” he replied, plucking a cigarette from the proffered carton. When Wilson held out a lighter, Zsasz waved his hand away. “No need for that when we can just...”

Zsasz leaned closer to Deathstroke, smirking around the cigarette in his mouth. Wilson remained motionless--even as Zsasz pressed the tips of their cigarettes together. Once Zsasz had gotten his lit, he pulled away, disinclined to press his luck any further. “Thanks,” he said. 

Wilson gave a nod of acknowledgement. Though he seemed unperturbed by what had just taken place, he was a hard man to read. 

_ Or _ , thought Zsasz, _ he really is that emotionless. _ Either way, Zsasz wasn’t sure how he felt about it--and that was unusual in itself. 

For a while, the two sat and smoked in silence. Zsasz wondered what Wilson was thinking.

He didn’t have to wonder for long.

“I have a question, Mr Zsasz.”

“Oh?” said Zsasz.  _ Thank Christ. _ “Go ahead and ask it, then.” He had the sudden feeling of Wilson’s eye on him, and were Zsasz anyone else, he would have been more than a little unnerved. As it was, he enjoyed having Deathstroke’s attention. It couldn’t compare to having Roman’s, of course, but there wasn’t anything that could.

“Why is it that Sionis…” Wilson took a drag from his cigarette. “Why does he bother to dictate what his...bodyguards, shall we say...may and may not do in our personal lives?”

An ordinary person would have said that Roman Sionis was a control freak. A paranoid tyrant with a sadistic streak that ran even deeper than the vein of the Gotham underworld that he’d conquered.

Aside from the sadism, Zsasz didn’t hold such sentiment as truth. Sure, Roman expected complete obedience from those under his employ, but why shouldn’t he? After all, he had the right to do what he pleased with what he owned. 

“The boss,” replied Zsasz at last, “likes having his things exactly how he wants them.”

Wilson hummed, slowly exhaling a cloud of smoke. He seemed neither surprised nor concerned when he said, “I belong to Sionis, then?”

  
“Of course.” Zsasz laid a hand on Wilson’s knee, a few of his fingers brushing the man’s thigh. “But I do, too. So does Red Hood. And Deadshot. We’re  _ all _ his.”

Wilson had cocked his head again, apparently waiting for Zsasz to continue.  _ You enjoy talking about Roman Sionis, _ that look said,  _ so go on. Who am I to stop you, anyway? _

At least, that was what Zsasz thought it said--and he wasn’t known for his wishful thinking.

“The boss will have you just the way he wants you,” said Zsasz. “Clothes, hair, hygiene, diet...nothing is off-limits to Roman.”

“It doesn’t bother you? That level of dominance?” Wilson’s one-eyed gaze met Zsasz’s, but Zsasz found that he couldn’t decipher the blank stare.  _ Guess we are a good pair. _

Then the man’s words registered, and Zsasz almost snorted. “I’m obviously not averse to it.”

Wilson made a noncommittal sound; he had turned his attention back to Gotham’s cityscape and the maddening nightlife which blazed within. From this high up, the cacophony was nothing but a dull roar, more often blown away by the wind than not.

Zsasz finally removed his hand from Wilson’s knee in order to pitch his cigarette off the roof. He’d kept his palm there for quite some time--mainly because the other man hadn’t reacted to its presence whatsoever--and his fingers felt cold now that they were again exposed to the chill midnight air. 

“...So,” Zsasz said once his boredom had become near-terminal. “Do you feel it when you get hurt, or nah?”

Deathstroke shrugged. “A healing factor does not negate pain, Mr. Zsasz. At least, mine doesn’t.”

_What did Roman say, again? ‘I want you to cut him open and fuck his guts?’_ It was something along those lines, Zsasz was positive. He gave Wilson his best approximation of a smile. “Shame.”

“Mr. Zsasz.” Wilson was looking at him again. It occurred to Zsasz how satisfying it would be to scoop the mercenary’s eye out and preserve it in a nice little bottle.

“Yeah?”

“There’s no need for you to do that.”

_ Is he a fucking mind reader?  _ “Do what?”

“To put on that act. To try and smile, when you and I both know it’s just another way for you to bare your fangs.” Wilson reached out and tapped a finger on Zsasz’s knee. “If you want something from me, you need only ask.”

It was the most Zsasz had ever heard Wilson speak, and his brain took a moment to process the forwardness of it all. “Thought you liked playing games.”

“Mm. Things change.”

Zsasz couldn’t argue with that; he was pretty sure that Deathstroke hadn’t always been such a dispassionate husk. He’d had a--a  _ moral code _ or some shit, a  _ conscious _ ...and now he was working for Black Mask. Zsasz couldn’t say that he got it, but he also couldn’t say that he cared to. 

Wilson must have known that, too, because he didn’t bother explaining. “With that out of the way,” he said, “what is it you’re hoping to gain from this interaction?”

“Well,” said Zsasz, scratching the back of his neck, “in all honesty, right now I just wanna see how fast you can heal.”  _ Because the boss and I, we have some real fun activities planned for the three of us. _

“A demonstration? Easy enough.” Swinging a leg back onto the roof, Wilson turned to fully face Zsasz. “Do you have anything besides your scalpels with you?” 

Zsasz could feel the old electric hum begin to spread through his veins, setting the metal in his mouth on a sublime edge. As he withdrew his butterfly knife from an inner coat pocket, every nerve in his body sang.  _ Will you sing for me too, Deathstroke? _

Wilson held out a hand to Zsasz, palm up. “I’d let you do more, but…” He laughed, softly, and Zsasz thrilled at the sound. “We have work tomorrow morning.”

_ An offering of yourself to me, no matter how small, is still an offering. _ Zsasz no longer knew if he was speaking aloud. It was irrelevant either way.  _ I can make you holy. _

“Whenever you’re ready, Mr. Zsasz,” murmured Deathstroke. He was holding his hand steady at the wrist; a remote part of Zsasz found this action to be quite endearing.

It was with the perfect amount of force that Zsasz drove his blade through Deathstroke’s palm. Blood was quick to stream from the hole and down the garnet-stained steel which had created it. As Zsasz gave the knife a slow twist, he heard bones and ligaments snap; red pooled in the space between where he and Wilson sat. It seemed almost hot enough to steam in the cold air, like the fresh corpse of a cardinal on snow. How simple it would be to slit its belly open and let its innards spill forth, spread those crimson wings out into a pagan crucifixion.  _ Beautiful. _

He twisted the knife once again, and more scarlet splattered onto the ledge.

“Mr. Zsasz…” Deathstroke’s voice intruded gently upon the rapturous state Zsasz had entered. “Zsasz?” He would have been displeased were it not for what the mercenary was saying. “You’ll be able to feel the wound healing if…”

The rest of Deathstroke’s words faded into the aether; Zsasz already knew what to do. He pulled the knife free from Wilson’s hand and then, without hesitation, sunk his first two fingers into the slick gash.

_ "Oh,” _ Zsasz breathed after a moment.  _ I really can feel him healing around me. _ Tendons reforming, tissue and flesh tightening… Zsasz dug his fingers in deeper upon realizing that he was hard. 

Then he had an idea. Fingers still hooked through Deathstroke’s palm, Zsasz dragged the other man’s hand towards himself. Wilson had just enough time to cock his head before his bloodied hand was pressed firmly against Zsasz’s erection. 

For a minute, neither man spoke. 

Then, apathetic as ever, Wilson said,

“You’re going to ruin your trousers.”

“Roman will buy me new ones.” With dark eyes fixed on Deathstroke, Zsasz flexed his fingers. The action tore newly-healed membranes apart, and Zsasz felt blood seeping through the fabric of his pants. “As for you,” he said, grip tightening, “wanna give me a handjob?”

Zsasz was well-aware that, if Wilson wanted to, he could break free and break Zsasz’s arm in an instant. Zsasz would hardly blame the mercenary if he were to do so. 

But Wilson’s mangled hand only twitched in Zsasz’s hold. “I don’t think,” he remarked, “that I can bend my fingers. They aren’t connected.” 

“Excuses, excuses,” Zsasz sighed. Another incomplete movement, and his cock jumped. Zsasz had the urge to simply hold Deathstroke’s hand in place and rut against it, if only because the man seemed so disinclined to protest. “Would you fight it,” Zsasz asked, “If I just... _ took _ what I wanted?”

The question hung in the air like a corpse strung from a banister. After a short eternity, Deathstroke severed the rope with a shake of his head. “Why bother?” he said. “I don’t care what you do to me.”

“Seems like,” Zsasz countered, curling his fingers, “you don’t care about  _ anything.” _ His voice dropped to a whisper. “And that’s  _ so _ much less fun.”

Wilson said nothing--but Zsasz could have sworn that he saw the faintest shadow of a grin on his face. “Why,” Wilson said again, “bother?” He traced Zsasz’s red-stained knuckles with the index finger of his free hand. “I’ve had enough of caring.” Zsasz savored the way his skin burned at the other’s touch, wanted to pull his cock out and--

Deathstroke leaned forward and pressed his lips to Zsasz’s. 

It was rare that Zsasz found himself surprised by anything, but he sat bemused as Wilson embraced him. And then, with the same suddenness with which it had started, it was over.

“There. That should make Sionis happy,” Deathstroke said. “Or angry, if he’s the only one allowed to do that.”

“‘Do that?’” Zsasz echoed. “You mean kiss me?” He laughed, wrenching Deathstroke’s hand fully against himself once more. The mercenary made a quiet, pained sound. “Kind of a lame kiss. I’d suggest we try again, but…” Zsasz allowed himself a slight anticipatory shudder. “I think Roman would like to be in attendance for that.”

“Watching on a screen isn’t good enough for him?” Wilson said, gesturing in the general direction of one of the cameras. “Ah, I suppose I should have known. He’s not the type afraid of getting his hands dirty.”

_ So long as he has gloves on, _ Zsasz thought. Out loud he said, “Speaking of hands, guess I’ll let go of yours now.” Slowly, he extracted his fingers from their place in Deathstroke’s wound. “We gotta do that again sometime, though. You felt nice around me.”

“I’m sure you say that to all the pretty girls,” Wilson said, deadpan. Removing his hand from Zsasz’s lap, he prodded at the hole in his palm.

“Also,” said Zsasz, having recovered from Wilson’s bizarre joke, “I’m taking a rain check on that handjob.”

“Oh? Alright,” said Deathstroke, nonchalant as ever. “Will we have an audience for that as well?”

“It depends,” Zsasz answered. He decided to leave “ _ on Roman” _ unsaid. “Right now I’d say the odds are about 50/50.”

“Good to know. You have my thanks, Mr. Zsasz.”

As Zsasz wiped the coagulating blood from off the blade of his knife, he became aware that Deathstroke had risen to his feet beside him.  _ Guess he’s heading in. Party must be over for tonight. _ Returning his attention to the weapon he held, Zsasz flicked it closed, then open. Its blade had slid so smoothly into Deathstroke, parting the flesh with intoxicating ease. Roman would like that.  _ Does Roman like the way he seems smaller without all that armor? I do. _

As much as Zsasz would have liked to properly invite Wilson back to his room (or to one of Roman’s dungeons), he knew to wait. For the time being, he’d just have to entertain himself with the thought of what was to come. And though it was probably best to save such contemplation for evenings alone in his bed, the idea of Wilson’s bloody fingers wrapped around his cock, the ragged edges of the slick red hole Zsasz would again cut into his palm catching on Zsasz’s--

Were it not for his preternaturally sharp hearing, Zsasz wouldn’t have noticed Deathstroke’s footsteps halt their retreat into the distance. Looking up, he saw why. In the distant sky above, radiant against Gotham’s eternal cloud cover, shone the Batsignal.

Zsasz snorted. He couldn’t help it. “Those GCPD morons. They’re all corrupt, but they still go crawling to Batman to save them when shit hits the fan.” Come to think of it, didn’t Roman have some of those cops in his pocket? Maybe they’d gotten killed; he’d have to check in on that.

“The Bat,” said Deathstroke from somewhere to Zsasz’s right, “can’t stand to let anyone die. He’d save your life just as he would a civilian's.”

At that, Zsasz threw back his head and laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. “Then he’s even dumber than the cops. I’ve added 29 of those people that Batman tries to  _ protect _ to my count, and he wants me  _ alive?” _

Zsasz stood and stretched, a few joints cracking. He felt Deathstroke’s eye on him.  _ How would you look at me if I buried a knife in your gut? What would it take to make you scream and cry and beg? I want to feel you writhing under me as Roman watches. You know that, don’t you, and yet you still look at me so calmly. _

“How many tallies do you have, Mr. Zsasz? In all, I mean.”

Oh,  _ there _ it was. The million-dollar question, the one that everyone asked Zsasz eventually (if they lived long enough). No matter how it was phrased, Zsasz loved answering; like spinning a roulette wheel of emotions, he could get anything from horror to fury. 

Black Mask, however, had professed genuine admiration.  _ Praise. _ Zsasz hadn’t known how much he could enjoy such a thing until Roman had been the one to give it.

_ Now, _ Zsasz wondered,  _ what will I get from  _ you, _ Deathstroke? Anything? _ He sought the mercenary’s shadowed gaze and spoke only when he had met it.

“67.”  _ 67 souls freed from their dull existence. _

Wilson nodded, expression unchanging. “And 67 scars to match. It must be quite a sight.”

_ Oh, I am, _ thought Zsasz. “I’ll show you every one of them,” he said aloud, carnal warmth creeping into every word. “Recite every name to you...every way that I killed them.”

There was a long silence after that. Then...

“Tell me, Mr. Zsasz,” Wilson called over the wind, face concealed by a veil of long white hair. “If you were to kill me, where would you place my mark?”

_ Oh. _

With something between the hungry, loping gait of a predator and the hallowed approach of a deity towards his apostle, Zsasz drew closer to Wilson. 

“Where?” repeated Zsasz. He thought he might be grinning. He thought he might like Deathstroke. “I never know for sure until afterwards, but…” He paused a moment in his advance towards Wilson to pull aside the collar of his shirt, baring the column of his throat. 

“I want you on my neck. Right above my pulse.”  _ Where I can run my fingers over you. Where I can feel the scar tug at my skin whenever I pant and tilt my head back for Roman’s hands to wrap around me. _

“Intimate,” murmured Wilson, “but easy to display.” He didn’t struggle as Zsasz seized him by the front of his coat and pushed him backwards to the very edge of the roof. “I like that.”

“Yeah. So do I.” 

When Zsasz took another step forward, he heard Deathstroke’s bootheels scrabble for safe purchase--then stop when they found nothing but air. Zsasz’s own body was the only thing anchoring Deathstroke to solid ground.

“If I let go right now,” Zsasz whispered, “You’d fall.”

“A 500-foot drop. Yes.”

“Would the impact kill you?”

“No.” Deathstroke’s head lolled back. “But it would be more than painful enough to make me wish I was dead, rather than alive and healing.”

Zsasz wanted to do it. Wanted to see the mercenary’s broken form sprawled on the pavement, head cracked open and anointed with a crimson halo.  _ A sacrificial lamb. Undying no matter how many times its throat is slit. Suffering as it heals, again and again. _

But Roman would be displeased if Deathstroke was out of commission without his say-so. Not even Zsasz could damage Roman’s (other) things if he wasn’t permitted to.  _ Besides, _ Zsasz thought, _ the street down there is busy even now. I’d prefer some privacy for this. _

“You and me, Deathstroke,” said Zsasz, “we’re gonna have  _ lots _ of fun together.” He stepped back from the ledge, pulling Deathstroke along with him. The man appeared almost disappointed--though not surprised--by this turn of events. 

Zsasz could relate. “I don’t like having to wait either, but…” His smirk was all teeth. “Just think of tonight as foreplay.”

“Mmm. Whatever you say, Mr. Zsasz.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” With a final coy glance at Deathstroke, Zsasz strolled away, heading for the door. “Be patient; I’ll be pushing you over all sorts of edges soon enough.”

Over the rush of the wind, Zsasz could have sworn he caught Deathstroke’s low voice. It was nothing but a murmur, and when Zsasz turned to look, Deathstroke already had his back to him, gazing out once again across Gotham. 

Shaking his head to keep from chuckling, Zsasz dragged the door open.  _ Yeah, Deathstroke, _ he thought, that divine hum burning just beneath his scarred skin.  _ I promise. I’ll hurt you plenty. _

**Author's Note:**

> what started as a "roman sionis has a harem of mercenaries" joke has become a fic series
> 
> now i am the joke
> 
> thank you for reading 🖤


End file.
